


Bruises and Barfights

by Undomiel5



Series: Servare Vitas [4]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Numb3rs (TV), Original Work
Genre: Bars and Pubs, F/M, Gen, HRT Friendship, barfight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 06:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17699660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Undomiel5/pseuds/Undomiel5
Summary: “Who did this?” Ian growled. They had nursed each other through a number of injuries and sicknesses: broken appendages, sprained appendages, the flu, pneumonia, etc. He knew much too well how injuries happened, and there was only one good explanation for Asha's injuries: a beating.





	Bruises and Barfights

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs, its particular characters, or the plots of its episodes. All I own are the plots of my specific stories and a few original characters.
> 
> This story elaborates on a reference in The Lone Wolf's Home, chapter 2.

September 2007

Ian had a sense that something was off as he was unlocking the apartment door. He didn’t know what was off, but he had a feeling that something was, and after long years of experience, he tended to trust his gut instincts. It was mid-afternoon on a Saturday in early September. For once after a mission, Ian had managed to return at a decent hour, not some unearthly hour of the morning. His wife’s team was on her training cycle for HRT, meaning that she was home more than usual.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open, his keen eyes glancing about for anything amiss. Asha was directly in front of him, standing on the top of a step-ladder on the far side of room, dusting the top of a bookcase. Hearing the noise, she glanced back over her shoulder, her right shoulder, which for her was odd.

“Hey! You’re back early.” She said in greeting, turning back to her dusting.

“For once,” Ian replied dryly, studying her closely. Her voice sounded off, more nasally than usual, making him wonder if she was sick. But then as she had swiveled back towards the bookcase, he had caught sight of the slightest wobble in her posture. Granted she was balanced on the top rung of a step-ladder where you usually weren’t supposed to stand, but Ian knew her balance was extraordinary. Walking on fences or curbs, balancing on one foot for minutes, it was easy to her as walking or standing on two feet.

Asha snorted, “Our work does have a way of usually ending in the wee hours of the mourning.” There it was again, that strange tone in her voice. She set the dust-cloth down on a shelf that she could reach from the floor. Steadying herself with her left hand, her left _bandaged_ hand—on the bookcase itself, she made to climb down. Two more worrying facts to file away: the fact that her hand was bandaged—she was hurt—and the necessity of a hand to steady herself.

“Let me help you,” Ian said. His long strides ate up the distance across the room, and within moments he was behind her. “I’m right behind you,” he warned her, reaching up to steady her with his hands on her waist. As he touched her, he felt the smallest flinch run through her, before she began to climb down.

When Asha finally had her feet on the floor, Ian stepped back to allow her to turn. When she did turn, Ian felt a wave of cold fury course through him as the reason for the oddities immediately became apparent. Her voice was nasally because her nose was broken and splinted. She had turned to her right, instead of her left, because she had a very colorful black eye and her eye was swollen partially shut. The left side of her face was bruised, and there was small bandage on her temple. To top that off, her dominant left hand was bandaged, as he had already seen, and she seemed to be guarding her left side.

“Who did this?” He growled. They had nursed each other through a number of injuries and sicknesses: broken appendages, sprained appendages, the flu, pneumonia, etc. Ian knew much too well how injuries happened, and there was only one good explanation for her injuries: a beating.

“A drunk. I don’t know his name,” Asha said, taking a half-step back to lean her weight on the ladder, “He’s sittin’ in jail. The police were happy to throw the book at him.”

“What happened?” Ian gently grabbed her chin, tilting her head so he could better see injuries. His fury was clear in his face and voice, though his every movement was tightly controlled.

“Would you believe me if I told you I got in a bar fight?” Asha replied, with a slight chuckle that quickly turned into a wince of pain. The arm guarding her side curled closer in.

“You don’t drink,” was his instant reply. There was a dark look in Ian’s eyes that she rarely saw. Danger to her was one of the quickest ways to rouse Ian’s temper and protective instincts.

“True. I was out with the boys at the local bar in town...”

_The bar in Quantico was a nice place, Asha guessed, as bars went, though she personally hated it. A cross between a regular bar and a sport’s bar, it was not the dark and seedy type that gave her the creeps and made the hairs on her neck stand on end. It had a nice clientele, overall, though there were usually a few odd balls, but it was the noise that bothered her. Used to the quietness of the outdoors and even the bustle of HRT Headquarters, the TVs and pounding music set her teeth on edge._

_Red Team was enjoying being on break for a couple months, enjoying not being gone for days or weeks on end, enjoying not have to deal with crazy scenarios while on training cycle. They were still busy but not in the same way. On Friday evening, seven of them had gathered to have a drink and socialize. Asha never drank but often came along, especially when Ian was gone, for the company and then played designated driver for her teammates and friends._

_The seven_ _agents had gathered at a large booth towards the back of the bar where it was slightly quieter. Asha and Valentin were sitting together at one end of the horse-shoe shaped booth, their heads bent together, discussing the current mechanical problem on Asha’s oft-broken truck. In the middle of the booth, Martin Fleming was discussing a renovation project that he was planning for his wife with Harold Duncan, a Minnesotan and a two year veteran of HRT, and James Baker, a Nevadan with two children of his own. On the other end of the booth, Grant was sitting next to Dillon Russel, discussing a hockey game on one of the TVs._

_“I want another soda. Anyone else want something?” Asha, who was at the end of the bench, said, rising to her feet._

_“I’ll take another beer,” said Dillon, who had been the last of the seven to arrive, “Thanks.”_

_Asha navigated through the maze of tables and peoples up to the bar. There was an open seat at the bar, and she headed for the gap. As she walked up, she noticed an FBI agent, a tall, handsome black man, sitting at the bar. She couldn’t remember his name—Asha was better at faces than names—but remembered working with him at a hostage situation on a train in Texas back in late 2005._

_“Hiya, gorgeous,” said a man off to her right, who, from the slur in his words, had had one too many drinks. Asha rolled her eyes and ignored him, mentally urging the bartender to hurry up. No one in their right mind would call her gorgeous, especially not with the long, deep scar on her cheek._

_The bartender was coming back. He’d gone to the back for more sodas, but the drunk had gotten up from his seat, two chairs down. Asha continued to ignore him but tilted her head just slightly so she could get a better look at him. She wasn’t particularly worried, especially with her teammates nearby and plenty of other cops and agents in the bar. The dude was a little taller than her and more muscular, but she had the advantage in a fight since she hadn’t been drinking and was better trained._

_The bartender was almost back, but the dude was on the other side of the gap. “Let me by you a drink,” he said, shooting her a look that was half-smile, half-leer, a look that made her skin crawl._

_“Not interested,” she replied with a glare, before turning to take the drinks from the bartender._

_“Don’t be like that,” the drunk—tall, blond-hair, tattoo on his neck, slightly unkempt clothing—replied, reaching out toward her arm._

_Asha shot him another glare, a look that would seared holes in him if possible, and started to turn away, but he caught her arm. Asha knocked his hand away, dropping her soda in the process, and jerked backwards, stumbling slightly. His face suddenly turned angry._ Oh great, an angry drunk.

_There was movement behind her. “I think you have had enough to drink, man,” it was the agent’s voice from the Texas mission, “Go home.”_

_Several increasingly heated statements were exchanged, and then suddenly there was a fist flying towards her face. Asha, caught off guard, had neither the time nor the room to dodge, and the fist impacted her left cheek with a sickening thud and a flash of pain, spinning her around. She stumbled backwards, caught her foot on something, and fell hard against the bar stool and the bar. The impact of her gun and left hip against the stool as well as her ribs against the counter sent a burst of white-hot fiery pain up her left and side, and she fell._

_There was a flurry of movement around her, and half-blinded for the moment, she was unsure of what was taking place around her. She curled into herself, trying to protect her injured torso. There were yells, the crash of breaking furniture, curses. Suddenly, a figure knelt beside her and carefully lifted her, moving her out of the crush of bodies and line of fire. It was the agent again, who had tried to intervene on her behalf._

_A few moments passed, as the agent carried her to the back of the room and laid her down on the floor. Then seconds later, Grant was kneeling by her side. “Where are you hurt?” He asked urgently, “besides your head?”_

_“Hip, ribs. Left side,” Asha replied, her voice tight with pain. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe through the pain. The combination of the pain in her ribs and side as well as her face plus the taste of blood from her nose—she had felt a crunch—was making her slightly nauseous._

_“I called 911,” she heard the bartender say. The agent—she wished she could remember his name—answered, but Asha couldn’t catch his words._

_“What an idiot!,” said Grant, trying to distract as he worked, gently palpating her abdomen and ribs and checking her hip, dealing with the potentially more serious injuries before he dealt with her nose, “In a bar full of cops and feds!” He said something else, but she missed it._

_A different hand touched her shoulder, and she flinched. “Just me,” it was Valentin’s voice. Something cold was pressed to her eye, and there was something soft at her nose. She reached up to help hold it in place, and suddenly realized her left hand hurt … badly._

_Grant swore, “You’ve got glass in your hand. Keep it still and open.”_

_After a minute, Grant added, “I think you can sit up carefully if it won’t make your head worse. It’ll help your nose at least.”_

_Asha gave the slightest of nods, and they helped her sit up and just barely lean forward so she could keep any more blood from running down her throat._

“The cops and the ambulance got there in another minute. I got a quick visit to the local hospital. Nothing serious: bruised ribs, bruised hip from my gun, black eye, broken nose, and a few other assorted cuts and bruises. There was only a few shallow cuts in my hand from the glass, and nothing that will impede its use in the future,” Asha finished her story.

“And the man who attacked you?” It was taking all of Ian’s willpower to stay near calm.

“Rotting in lockup. The police threw the book at him. Valentin rather gleefully texted me the list this morning: disturbing the peace, resisting arrest, drunk and disorderly conduct, multiple accounts of battery, and destruction of property.”

Ian took a step back, shaking his head and taking a deep breath to calm his temper. Asha reached out and touched his arm with her off hand.

“I’m alright,” she said, “…enough. I’ve had a lot worse in this line of work. It’s nothing that won’t heal soon enough. Even my nose, if it ends up a little crooked, won’t make my face look much worse.”

Ian rolled his eyes at his wife’s self-deprecating humor. “I’m more concerned about your health than your looks.”

Seeing the anger fading from her husband’s eyes, Asha continued in a light-hearted tone, “Grant and a doc have both looked me over. No injuries that won’t heal soon enough. My pride is hurt the worst. I should have been more careful. He didn’t seem like the type to start swinging, nor was I expecting him to try something that drastic in a room full of cops and agents. I thought I would have the advantage even if he did, and I let my guard down. … That’ll teach me to be more careful this time.”

Ian put a hand over hers, squeezed gently. “You do that. And maybe reconsider going to the bar with the others for a bit.”


End file.
